I'll Try to Remind You
by kiwi-fruit-from-hell
Summary: He won't die right away, he'll just want to. 2dozenowies challenge, claim: House and Wilson. Prompt: Neurological Disorder.


This was written for the 2dozenowies challenge on Livejournal, using prompt #15- Neurological disorder. The medical information was researched, but since I'm not a doctor I can't promise accuracy. This piece talks about Alzheimer's disease, so just a light warning for anyone who may find this a sensitive subject.

* * *

I'll Try to Remind You.

Wilson squinted at him under the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria. Pressing his hand down onto the table, perhaps a little harder than was necessary, House met his scrutinising gaze with a blank look.

"I saw that," Wilson stated. He raised his eyebrows and tried to keep the concern from his voice; it would only make House even harder to talk to. However, he couldn't keep the slight sinking feeling from attacking his stomach, despite its irrationality. Panicking over a twitch was ridiculous, as a doctor he knew that – but as a doctor he also had a list twirling through his mind of everything it could mean.

House took a napkin from the side of his tray and dabbed at the coffee he had spilt. "My hand cramped, it's probably just a result of repetitive strain; you're to blame for that."

"Haha," Wilson said dryly. "I'll just make you some hot cocoa and sit you down in front of a black and white movie tonight then." More quietly, attempting to take over mopping up the coffee until House smack him away, Wilson continued, "Seriously, get it checked out. It could be myoclonus."

House snorted. "I twitch once, and you sign me up for a battery of tests."

"It's not just once though, is it, House? You almost poured boiling water over your arm yesterday, and how many times have you dropped the remote? Or slipped when you're writing a differential on the whiteboard?" He held back from mentioning the increasing frequency with which House had been forgetting his keys or spent far too long groping for the right word. Cheap scare tactics would only earn more a more derisive response.

"If I think it needs checking out, I'll get it checked out. I'm a doctor too, you know."

A stubborn House was a House Wilson wanted to smack over the head with a lunch tray. Being concerned for someone who seemed to have so little concern for themselves frayed his nerves and made him weary, especially knowing how little good it did. He had given up on trying to ensure House got enough sleep months ago, resigning himself to the fact that waking in the night he would find the other half of their bed empty and hear music drifting in from the living room; he comforted himself that most nights he heard a sweet melody instead of harsh, discordant noise. He had never expected House to change, but he always wanted him to be safe.

"I need to get back to work," House said, jerking Wilson out of his thoughts. He left the cafeteria without another word, without the slight brushing of hands that had become custom between them.

Wilson hadn't noticed the pager beep, he assumed it must have just been set on vibrate.

His assumption lasted about five minutes, before he decided to go back to his office and maybe just look in on House on his way. He plucked an untouched bag of chips off the table as a peace offering, or at least a buffer.

Looking through the glass door, Wilson saw House sat with his neck bent, his entire posture slumped and his forehead resting on his cane. Wilson hesitated for a split second then walked in and settled into his familiar seat on the opposite side of House's desk.

House didn't look up.

Wilson tapped his fingers on the desk. "What's going on, Greg?" They rarely used first names; they were reserved for sex and fights. Now, Wilson was trying to remind him that they were linked.

"I need a blood test for Tal proteins," he said quietly.

"Christ, House, that's a big leap. The twitch could mean anything. It could be an infection, or a metabolic disorder…" Wilson trailed off as his heart sank. Hot prickling began on the back of his neck; House had a reason for everything he thought. Suddenly stumbling over words in his mind, Wilson shot him a questioning look.

House took a tourniquet and syringe out of the top drawer of his desk. Methodically, he laid the syringe in its sterile wrapping on top of a case file and tied the strip of rubber around his arm. "My grandmother had Early-onset Alzheimer's."

"But your parents…"

"They're still within the presentation age range."

Wilson snatched the syringe off the desk when House reached for it, and moved around to kneel on the floor in front of him. He took House's hand in his own and curled the fingers over into a fist. Pressing the needle against House's flesh, Wilson hated the frailty; he could feel the bones of his thin arms. Wilson looked into his eyes as the needle broke the skin, the first time they had made eye contact since he came into the room. House looked away first, resuming staring at the floor.

When the blood was drawn, Wilson slipped the vial into his pocket and House snapped the tourniquet off his arm with a loud ping.

"You should go home and rest. You look wrecked," Wilson said, only aware once the words were out of his mouth just how bad House looked. His entire body seemed introverted, his muscles tense and limbs held close. The whites of his eyes were a dull cream colour from lack of sleep. "I'll run the test."

He hadn't been expecting House to agree. Somehow, that was the most worrying thing.

---

The test was simple. With the miracles of modern medicine, all Wilson had to do was place a sample in a machine, press a few buttons and wait for the beeps as the results printed out. Much harder was stopping his legs from buckling beneath him as he cast his eyes over the piece of paper.

---

Wilson wasn't sure how he made the drive home. He alternated from complete numbness to a sharp, tight pain in his chest. Stood at the front door, digging through his pockets for his key, Wilson's vision blurred and he had to blink hard. His movements were uncontrolled; he pulled the key from his pocket too hard and slammed his hand into the wall. Unlocking the door, he faltered. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to leave. He wanted to run, or lie, in the blind childish hope that if he ignored it, it wasn't real. Then he heard the piano being played.

"Hey," Wilson half-whispered. House turned to face him, spinning on the piano stool, and he couldn't say anything else. He crossed the room and handed him the test results.

House slammed the lid of the piano keyboard down and stood up, knocking the stool to the floor in his abruptness. The silence that followed the eruption of noise was deafening.

Wilson followed House to the kitchen, where he was leaning over the sink and breathing heavily; gripping the counter top, his knuckles were white. Quietly, Wilson said his name but received no response, no sign that he'd even been heard. He took a tentative step forward and laid his fingertips on House's wrist. "It's not conclusive; we'll need to do other tests. Even then, there are treatments, new medications are being developed."

"Is this the part where you pat my head and tell me it's all going to be ok? I only have one thing, just my mind, my thoughts, and I'm going to lose them," House snarled.

Wilson took House's shoulder and forced him to face him. "You have more than one thing," he said fiercely.

"I don't expect you to stick around. You're only human, and the romance tends to go out of a relationship when one person can't remember the other's name."

Wilson brushed his fingers over House's damp cheek. "I'll remind you."

---

Lying in bed that night, Wilson stared at the ceiling. For once, he was wide awake when House got up; he heard every creak of bed springs and the quiet click of the light switch. He listened to the soft tune coming from the piano, knowing that one day House wouldn't be able to remember which notes to play.


End file.
